April 2025
-
How do I unwind after a demanding day? I sit.I breathe.And sometimes—I remember. Back in 2008, when the Great Recession was battering my business and life felt like it was unraveling one invoice at a time, I developed a small ritual. After a long day—clients yelling, banks circling, friends and subcontractors losing homes—I’d pull into
-
I use social media the way I use salt-just enough to taste, never enough to live on. bb grey It’s Easter Sunday. I was woken not by an alarm, but by a quartet of birds playing something between a minuet and a dream—somewhere between Debussy and the dripping hush of a new morning. It’s easy
-
Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind. At precisely 1:30 a.m., I made the kind of discovery no archaeologist dreams of: the third shard of glass embedded delicately into the bottom of my unsuspecting bare foot. I jumped back like a startled ballerina, teetering heroically on one leg as my hand, still
-
I woke with a hymnhalf-formed on my tongue—Stricken, smitten, and afflicted—the kind of song that burrowsinto the folds of a child’s memory,etched deeper by dim lights and heavy ritualsin a Lutheran church that never smiled on Good Friday. We sang it every year,never once on any other day.And though it sounded like mourning,we were expected
-
“Winners quit fast, quit often, and quit without guilt”― Seth Godin, The Dip Knowing when to quit. I’ll never forget stumbling across Seth Godin’s book, The Dip, and hitting a line that stopped me cold: “Some of the most successful people are the best quitters.” My brain did a double-take. Growing up with immigrant parents who
-
“We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person.”— W. Somerset Maugham Your silence cuts like glass,a delayed reply, a shrug that stings.I wrote you truth, raw and jagged,to mend the cracks where our story
-
Billie Holiday cries softly, somewhere between here and the past—her melody warms the corners of the roomlike the heater humming in time with my breath.A cappuccino cozies the center of me,and I write—to life,to you,across this ethereal threadspun of digits and light. I weave thoughts and feelingslike a tapestry—yarns pulled from memory and moment:scratchy and
-
Music prompt mind, Six months in a leaky boat. Cruising down the freeway—feeling that fleeting “free” way vibe—I had Split Enz’s “Six Months in a Leaky Boat” blasting through my speakers. The wind was whipping, the lyrics were hitting, but as usual, my brain played its favorite game: swapping out half-heard words for whatever nonsense
-
gulped gravel gargled spit out sand, fists pound folly idol weight in hand ***word playing Haiku, simplicity to complex, breaking made up rules
-
on YouTube—“Hosanna in the highest!”echoes through streaming speakersas a path is paved for a manlater to die. the crowd cheers—a sporting event,the prizefight of the ages.they wave palmslike foam fingers. it’s finishedbefore it begins.a Dawn King, promoted.a cross—at least not upside down.that would hurt more, I think. I pause.get a cup of joe.press play,skip the
BB Grey--musings 